


learning to breathe

by KiranInBlue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief, Hawke Dies, Human Cole (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: Hawke stays behind in the abyss. It feels like Varric doesn't even have the time to take a breath before Cole is facing down his own murderer.Emotions suck.(Technically WIP but in the meantime decently functions as a complete work as is.)





	1. Prelude

_ “Cole needs to forgive this,” Solas had said. _

If only it were so simple.

Cole’s back was tense, trembling under the steadying hand Varric had rested between his shoulder blades. Varric could see fury and pain twisting Cole’s features as the templar cowered pathetically on the ground before them. Anger rose in Varric, so strong it was sour at the back of his throat.

It wasn’t that forgiveness was impossible, were Cole to be a person. Sure, maybe spirits found it easier to forgive than people did, but people could always surprise you. People were resilient. What Solas didn’t understand was that this was all about what the anger represented.

_ “Sorry, I’m so sorry! Please don’t hurt me!” _

_ “Sorry won’t help him now, will it, kid?” _

_ And Cole hissed: “No.” _

Sometimes, ‘sorry’ helped. When the hurt was nothing more than an ignorance, a simple lapse of thought, ‘sorry’ healed. But when the hurt ran deeper, ‘sorry’ could bite more than it helped.

Varric remembered how cold he’d felt in Skyhold after they’d returned from Adamant. It was always chilly in the mountain fortress, but after Adamant, he couldn’t feel warm no matter how close he sat to the fire.

“Varric, I’m sorry,” the Inquisitor had said, and despite the genuine regret that molded every syllable, Varric felt the chill inside him turn to ice.

Forgive. It was an easy thing to say, but sometimes you just weren’t ready.

_ “Pull the trigger and put him down like a mad dog. Do it!” _

_ Click. _

Varric eased the jammed crossbow out of Cole’s trembling hands. The templar quivered on the ground, pale with shock to find himself still alive. Deft fingers undid the mechanism that he’d set to stop the bolt from firing, and Varric slung Bianca onto his back.

There was a burlap sack back in Adamant bristling with a dozen bolts. Varric had stood there in silence, firing again and again into the helpless sack with steely calm. This was Nightmare. Erimond. Clarel. The Wardens. Alistair. The Inquisitor. Himself. Even Hawke, who’d dared stay behind.

When the Inquisitor came looking for Varric, he was sitting with his back against the wall, Bianca in his lap and an empty quiver on the ground beside him. The Inquisitor reached out a hand. Varric took it.

Letting the anger rage through your veins helped you breathe. But you couldn’t forget who you were.

_ “Forget.” _

_ “No. He needs to remember this. You do, too.” _

Because the anger meant something. It meant they’d lost something important to them. One day, maybe, Cole would let go of his anger, but to not even let him  _ feel  _ it was to deny the importance of what he valued, to ignore the connections that defined who he’d chosen to be.

Varric couldn’t let that happen. Even when losing those connections hurt so bad you didn’t know how to breathe -- at least you’d _had_ them. Awful emotions were part of being a person, because they generally meant there’d been room for the good stuff. Anger came with passion. Pain came with growth. Grief came with love.

The raw look in Cole’s eyes told Varric that he did love -- he’d loved the original Cole, he loved what had been lost. He hurt, but he loved.

Varric rested a hand on Cole’s shoulder again and steered him gently back.

“We’re done here.”


	2. 1

Cole was staring at Varric.

Or maybe ‘staring’ wasn't the right word. Varric wasn't even sure Cole was actually  _ looking  _ at him. But he could feel Cole’s attention focused on him, making the back of his shoulders prickle.

They were a day’s journey out from Skyhold, and they’d set up camp for the night in a semi-sheltered alcove of the Frostback Mountains. Solas and the Inquisitor were off at one corner discussing weird rift-y things, and Varric was picking suspiciously at the tasteless root vegetable concoction Solas had made for dinner. Behind him, Cole had been hovering at the edge of the campsite, a faint look of concertion on his face as he adjusted himself to his newly more-human limbs. Except now, for some reason, he was focused singularly on Varric.

Finally, Varric twisted around to look at Cole: “What’s on your mind, kid? You’ve been watching me for ages.”

Cole appeared startled by the question; his gaze flickered to Varric’s, then back down to the snow at his feet. “You saw me seeing you. You didn’t, before.”

Ah. It was somewhat unsettling to be reminded that he, too, had once been affected by Cole’s weird mind-bending traits -- not there’d been any real reason to think he’d been immune, of course. But still. Weird. “Well, I see you now,” Varric said, after a beat. He tapped the rock beside him, inviting Cole to sit next to him. “Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

Cole came over but didn’t sit down. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You summoned him, and he went away, wit and charm now only an echo in a memory. You tell yourself you killed him. But you didn’t know.”

“…You’re talking about Hawke.”

“He knew you would blame yourself. He didn’t want you to, but he didn’t know what to say. It was the worst thing about staying behind. ‘Goodbye’ wasn’t nearly enough.”

Varric exhaled, the sound harsh in his own ears. The mountain wind rustling through camp suddenly felt a lot colder.

Cole broke off. “I’m making it worse.”

“No -- ah,  _ Maker _ .” Varric drew a hand heavily across his face. “But that’s a heavy topic to spring on someone.”

“I wanted to help,” Cole murmured. “I’m sorry. I can make you forget.”

“Whoa!” Varric leaned back as Cole lifted a hand. “No thanks, kid. I like my head just the way it is: blessedly unscrambled.”

Cole’s hand drooped. “But I said something that made you hurt. My words were sharp. I didn’t mean them to be.”

“Not exactly. Just, there are some things that are going to hurt, no matter how you bring them up. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk about them. But give a guy warning, you know?”

Cole frowned, and didn’t reply. He finally perched on the rock next to Varric, crouching with his knees drawn up to his shoulders. 

“Just start with something like: ‘Hey, Varric, can we talk about Hawke?’.”

“But you want to talk about him. The stories fill you up, so much you feel like you can’t breathe. So many stories, ended too soon.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Varric said wryly. “But still. Ask.”

“Can we talk about Hawke,” Cole intoned.

“Eh, close enough.” Varric exhaled again, this time softer. “You heard his thoughts, huh?”

“I heard his pain. He was sorry to leave you behind.”

“Leave  _ me-- _ ?” Varric huffed a small, mirthless laugh. “Well. That’s. That’s something.”

Cole frowned. “You feel guilty.”

“Yeah.”

“You asked him to come because you thought he could help, could fix, you were trying and you couldn’t do enough. Maybe the hawk could do more. You didn’t know he’d stay in the Fade. You wanted to  _ help _ .”

Varric sighed. He sipped at his tasteless stew, giving himself a second to order his thoughts. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Everything you said is true. But he’s  _ gone _ , and I can’t stop thinking about what I could have done differently so that he’d still be here. Whatever my reasons were for asking him to come to Skyhold, it doesn’t change the fact that if I didn’t, he’d probably still be alive. It doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I killed him.”

“I’m sorry,” Cole said miserably. “I don’t know how to fix that.”

“You aren’t supposed to. It’s not something anyone just fixes. It’s something I have to learn to live with.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting. You don’t deserve to.”

At that, Varric quirked a small, wry smile. “You know, kid – that helps.”

Cole blinked.

“No one can bring Hawke back. No one can make me  _ not  _ feel guilty about the part I played in it. But knowing I’ve still got friends with me, friends who give a shit about me? It makes it a little easier to live with.”

Cole considered this. Then, he said: “I care, Varric.”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “I know, kid. Thank you.”

“Do you want to tell stories? Words, a heartbeat in your mind, makes reality less sharp.”

“A story? You know, not right now.” There was too much swirling around in Varric’s head. Sure, stories could slow his thoughts, give them some semblance of direction, but then he’d feel everything again. He couldn’t do that. Not now. Maybe when he got back to Skyhold he could let himself fall apart again. But right now, he had to keep moving. 

They sat quietly for a moment. Varric picked at his stew. It had gone cold. 

“You hurt every day,” Cole murmured abruptly. “Will I hurt like that?” 

Varric’s heart twisted. Is that part of why Cole was so desperate to make him feel better? Cole had always been gentle, but was fear of his own emotions making it more urgent for him to cure Varric’s grief?  _ Oh, kid _ . “I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t imagine that’s an easy thing to get over.”

Cole made a small, miserable sound, and curled in on himself. He hid his face in his hands, his fingers tangling in dirty blonde strands. 

The sound seemed to catch Solas’ attention across the camp. He met Varric’s eyes, and his expression was both pained and reproachful.  _ This wouldn’t be happening if you’d let me handle the situation,  _ the hard line of his mouth said. 

Varric looked away, focusing on Cole. He refused to regret giving Cole the chance to be a person. He settled an arm across the kid’s shoulders.

“You’ve got your friends,” Varric said gently. “We’ll help you through this.” 

Cole’s shoulders were trembling. He made another choked sound. And another. 

The kid was  _ crying _ . 

Oh, shit. Varric scooted closer, holding Cole as quiet sobs wracked his body. Had Cole ever cried before? Varric didn’t know. But he just gently rubbed Cole’s back, murmuring: “There you go, kid. It’s okay. Cry it out.” 

Cole leaned into him, still shuddering. He turned his head into Varric’s side, which knocked his absurdly large hat askew. Varric patted his shoulder. The Inquisitor had noticed Cole’s distress too at this point, but she didn’t seem to know what to do. She shifted awkwardly on the spot, watching them with wide eyes. 

Maker, Cole cried for a long time. Varric’s shoulder began to ache from the angle he was holding his arm at, but he didn’t pull away. When Cole finally lifted his head again, there was a large damp spot on Varric’s jacket. Varric watched him concernedly. 

“Hey. You okay?” 

“I don’t know,” Cole mumbled. His voice was still wet. “I feel… empty.” 

“Yeah. A good cry will do that to you. Take it easy, okay?” 

Cole nodded mutely. 

Varric set aside his stew, which was now on the verge of freezing over. Cole watched the movement. 

And the both of them were suddenly startled by a rumbling emanating from Cole’s abdomen. Cole looked down at himself, evidently bewildered, and pressed a hand against his stomach. 

Varric cocked an eyebrow. “Cole -- are you hungry?” 

“Always,” Cole replied. “Belly always tight, just like his was. But it didn’t make  _ sound  _ before.” On cue, his stomach rumbled again. 

“You’re  _ always  _ hungry? But I’ve never seen you eat!” 

“Don’t have to. Hollow, empty, but not dying. His body and mind became weak when he didn’t eat, but I can still fight and think. If I don’t eat, the soldiers and birds are less hungry.” 

“So you’ve been starving yourself so they have a little more to eat?” 

“Yes.” 

“Maker, kid,” Varric said, running a hand across his face. “But if your stomach is growling now, maybe you should eat something. I promise everyone here has eaten enough.”

Cole didn’t look all too happy with the suggestion. His lips turned down -- a pout, really. 

“We’ll leave a bowl out for the woodland creatures if you want, too,” Varric promised. “Seriously, though, you’d be doing everyone a favor by eating this stuff. I don’t think anyone even likes Solas’ cooking.” 

The kid  _ still  _ didn’t look convinced.

“It could help you feel better. Grief is always worse on an empty stomach.” 

Cole peered suspiciously at the bowl Varric had set aside. His nose scrunched. Then he reached for it. 

“Whoa, hang on kid,” Varric said, fending him off. “That’s stone cold; it’s gonna be disgusting. Let me at least get you a fresh bowl.” 

“Okay,” Cole said finally. 

Solas gave Varric a dry look as he spooned hot stew into a clean bowl, as if somehow it was  _ his  _ fault the kid was eating now. Which, to be fair, maybe it was, but Varric didn’t see how that was a bad thing exactly. 

But when Varric brought the bowl back to Cole, Cole took one tiny, suspicious spoonful, and promptly spit it back out. 

“Blergh.” 

“Yeah, overboiled vegetables are gross even when they’re still hot,” Varric agreed as he sat back down and picked up his own bowl.

“I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I, kid. But no one’s better off on an empty stomach.” 

So Cole took another, cautious sip. He made a face, and had one more spoonful. But then he pushed the rest away.

Ah, well. At least it was progress. 

Taking in the shadows that still darkened Cole’s face, Varric reflected that that was what this whole process was going to be. Three sips of stew, learning to cry: little step by little step. He’d known this was all going to be slow going from the start, of course; no one learned to be a person in leaps and bounds. But actually watching Cole take those first shaky steps was humbling. 

Varric patted Cole’s shoulder one more time and flashed the kid an approving smile, even as he gathered up what was left of the stews. He combined the contents into one bowl, and left it out for the woodland creatures, as promised. 

“Come on, kid,” he said, getting up from their rock. “Get some rest -- whatever you do to recoup. You did good today.” 

Cole didn’t look quite ready to smile, but . . . well, as he rose to his feet, at least he didn’t look like he was about to crumple anymore. Varric considered that a small victory. 


End file.
